The Lioness in Dorne
by Min Daae
Summary: Myrcella, post A Feast for Crows, has rather a lot to deal with. Girls will be girls, and Martell men will be Martell men; Doran realizes his mistake, Myrcella cries, and Trystane gets involved.


When Myrcella found herself conscious again, she cried for days. She could feel her face puffing up and knew her mother would have scolded her, but she could not stop touching it, feeling the proud flesh raised across her face and the peculiar sense of imbalance where her hair had been sheared off on one side of her head and her ear was gone. No one would give her a mirror, but the servants went about her with lowered eyes and she _knew _she would be ugly.

And Trystane did not come to visit her at all. She thought for sure he at least would still be her friend, and if he came and would play _cyvasse_ with her she thought she would not mind so much the solitude imposed on her. But perhaps he found her ugly as well. Maybe her face frightened him now.

Myrcella had thought about it, and she would not have minded being betrothed to Trystane. He told her which of the spicy foods she should try and which to avoid until she was used to them, and never minded even when she beat him at his own favorite game. He almost seemed oddly pleased, in fact; he would smile proudly whenever she announced her win with slightly smug glee. He was quiet, but it was because he was listening, not because he was shy. And Trystane was so clever about some things Myrcella had never even thought about, and he never talked to her like she was stupid or a lackwit the way older men sometimes did in King's Landing. And even though he knew she was a Princess and Special he would still _talk _to her.

But of course he wouldn't want to marry an ugly girl, not even if the ugly girl was his friend. Myrcella did not pout often, but she had watched Tommen and Joffrey both at it often enough that she knew the general theory, and set herself to wallowing in lonely misery. Maybe, she thought dramatically, she could just wear an elaborate mask, always, covered in feathers and sparkles and jewelry, and no one would ever have to know her real face. It would be so very mysterious.

However, if she thought herself unwatched in her moping through the days, Myrcella learned that she was wrong when the Prince of Dorne himself called on her, looking pained, his knuckles swollen in the same way they had been when Myrcella had first met him – she had been very young, then, and probably witless.

She stood and curtsied, hoping that she remembered all the proper courtesies. Her knees still wobbled a little when she tried to stand straight, with weakness – one of the younger servants had told her with morbid fascination that she had bled _buckets_ and Myrcella had wanted to wail in distress but sent the insolent girl away with all the disdain she could muster.

"Sit, child," he said, gently, sitting himself with some effort. His guards were not with him. "I wish to speak to you."

She sat, gingerly, keeping her eyes down and wishing at least her hair would grow back properly so she could play with it when she was nervous. "Of course, my Prince. I am listening."

He sighed, heavily. "I cannot possibly express to you how much it injures me that you should have been hurt in the schemes of others, and most especially those attempting to use you against your own family. It is a cruel thing, and a wrong one."

Myrcella felt a touch embarrassed. She had been angry, at first, but of course it wasn't as though Arianne had kidnapped her. "And no fault of yours, I understand," she said, awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably. "I was foolish as well, not to see or understand…"

Doran was shaking his head. "No – you are a child, no matter how you may be dressed up otherwise." He hesitated. "An envoy from King's Landing, a guard for you among other things, is approaching Dorne. As of yet, they know nothing of what has happened."

Myrcella flushed warmly, suddenly feeling keenly ashamed. She knew her mother of all people would never see this as anything but a direct attack and because she'd been silly enough to listen to all Lady Arianne's talk of women ruling she would get sweet Doran and – and _Trystane _in trouble. "I will," she started, fervently, but Doran leaned forward.

"No, child, I know you will tell them the truth. That is not what I ask. If you wish, you may go home with them, and I will accept the dissolution of your betrothal without objection. If you are unhappy here – the fault for which is partly mine – I would not hold you against your will, young as you are."

Myrcella blinked once, twice.**,** And promptly burst into tears. It felt odd, to cry, for the odd numbness of the scar, but she couldn't help it, even knowing again that she was behaving like the silliest small girl and ought to be more grown up.

Doran looked startled, and she knew she had to explain. Blubbering through her tears, she managed to get out, "I don't want to go, I like it here and I like you and I like Trystane and I know I'm ugly and you don't want me anymore but you can't throw me out, I _won't _have it!" She stood up, haughtily, and stomped her foot, trying to summon her dignity. "I will yell and you won't be able to send me away at all, _ever._"

The expression on DoranMartell's face was so satisfyingly stunned that for a moment Myrcella was gratified. Then he was shaking his head. "No – Lady, no, we are not trying to be rid of you. You have been a delight and a joy – to me and to my – Trystane."

Myrcella had managed to evaporate the tears, but this brought them bursting forth again in flood, and she almost wanted to blow her nose on the curtains, knowing that her face would get all red and wet and blotchy and make her even uglier, but that was just too much. "Then how come he won't even come and see me and play _cyvasse_? I haven't seen him once at all, I haven't seen _anyone!_"

Doran, abruptly, looked very somber. "Child, we thought that it would only do you hurt, that you would not wish to see him-"

She sniffed, and crossed her arms in a defiant gesture she'd seen the younger Stark girl make once. Her mother would never have done it, but it seemed to suit the moment. "You didn't ask me, no one asked me. I'm lonely and I'm bored and I don't care if he thinks I'm ugly but I want to talk to _someone!_"

Doran blinked once, then stood, unsteadily and with obvious pain. "I have erred, Princess," he said, formally, "I only hope I can correct my error to your satisfaction. I will send my son here at once."

Then he hobbled out the door and closed it very quietly behind him. Myrcella sat down, stunned. First he'd tried to send her away and then he'd told her that it was all a misunderstanding and now he was going to send Trystane to her – he was going to –

Oh _no. _Myrcella put her hands to her mouth. And she was all puffy and blotchy and still wearing the plainest dress she owned, and she didn't have a feather mask to cover her face, and what would he think of her-

A knock on the door, and Trystane's high and familiar voice, not even close to breaking yet. "Myrcella? It's Trystane...I brought the _cyvasse._"

Myrcella drew herself up, summoned all her pride, and said as imperiously as she could manage, "Come in." The door opened and he slipped in, blinked once and then held up the board, looking a little shy and nothing else.

"Do you still want to play with me?"

The responding question burst out before Myrcella's ladylike instincts could take it back. "Do you think I'm ugly?"

Trystane looked puzzled. "No – it's not the first time I've seen you, you looked a lot worse at first. I was in here when you first came back but you weren't awake and they made me leave. What happened?"

Myrcella felt herself blushing and stared in consternation. "…I think I'd rather play _cyvasse,_" she ventured, almost meekly, and Trystane shrugged amiably and set down the board. She hesitated a moment before venturing, almost shyly, "Maybe you'll even beat me this time since I haven't been practicing."

He looked up just slightly from setting up and gave her a quick grin, and Myrcella focused fervently on not letting herself cry. So many tears could hardly become a lady.

She lost the game, and tried to be a good sport about it, but was still grateful when Trystane politely suggested a rematch. The thought of the feathered mask didn't cross her mind until the maester came up to check her healing and shooed him away. He hugged her, then, after putting away the pieces.

"Don't go away again," he said, firmly, "I can't play _cyvasse _with anyone else anymore."

Then he vanished down the stairs.


End file.
